


Runs radiating under

by chantefable



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Ending, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Introspection, M/M, Mithraism, Pining, Post-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 07:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: After resolving the matter with the eagle, Marcus and Esca slowly head back south to Calleva.In which Esca is busy with logistics, planning, cultural mediation, networking, and future planning. Meanwhile, Marcus has a lot of feelings.





	Runs radiating under

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildlives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlives/gifts).



> Alternate movie ending ([original cut)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFglksjrKOA): Marcus and Esca burn the golden eagle standard on Guern's funeral pyre and head back to Calleva, discussing farming and horse husbandry options.
> 
> **Happy Yuletide!**

Sweat comes quickly, and a shiver  
Vibrates my frame. I am more sallow  
Than grass and suffer such a fever  
As death should follow.  
But I must suffer further, worthless  
As I am…

Sappho

*

The thin grey mists meandered downward into the valley, and, peering through the blur, Marcus could make out the stark branches of scattered bushes and the brown soil bared by the receding herbs in muted hues of clay and honey.

Now that the sun was teasing the edge of the horizon with the first lick of cool crimson, he could clearly see the bright sparkle of dew drops clinging to the feeble stalks and sharp branches, the trembling veil of moisture falling along the hill slopes, the tiny beads of water that had sprung into existence overnight and now adorned the edges of their horses' reins, the hem of Marcus' cloak, the soft swell of the blanket where it curved around Esca's calf, hip, and shoulder. 

The morning air was sharp, and Marcus braced himself against the cool that crept down his skin. He rubbed his palms together and stroked his face, pressing stiff fingers against his cheeks and forehead to get the blood running. It must have been the wisps of mist swirling underneath his eyelids, or else the piercing touch of nascent sunrise that almost made Marcus' eyes well up. Surely those were not the terrors of the night that had stayed coiled between his lashes, the ones that had been warding off sleep and calm alike as Marcus kept his watch until daybreak; surely those were not dark idle fancies that had made him utterly restless and on the verge of tears. Those wicked morbid thoughts, should they have crossed Marcus' mind, surely belonged with the night shadows, stretched thin and swallowed by the mercilessly clear early hour, and with the cackling quick red sparks spawned by the fire which was now dormant under the thick flakes of white ash. Whatever might have scraped along Marcus' heart, it did not belong in the brazen new day, where travel back south lay ahead of them, where Esca would be, as always, close enough to see. 

For all that the Brigantes did not have their own writing system, and Esca had not learned Latin or Greek, he always seemed to be reading Marcus' face like a book in an entirely familiar language.

The short fluffy mare huffed softly, nibbling on the feeble withered grass a little further off while its mate moved its ears, apparently intent on the pregnant silence of this blooming morning. Esca had acquired their two horses from the Selgovae a little while back, when it became obvious that Marcus' marching days were truly over, the erstwhile efforts of Rufrius Galarius notwithstanding. Their journey north that now felt so long ago (and yet so immediate and timeless, as if Marcus' very bones had imbibed the sense of purpose pulling him forward, the impression of constant movement from the ever-changing sights and sounds as they crossed the harsh but malleable British landscape, and Esca's constant presence at his side) had definitely put a strain on Marcus' leg, and the manual labour he had to do as Esca's slave with the Seal People, while not particularly different from the everyday duties of a serving Roman soldier, had exacerbated the condition of the old wound; the final fight, their filthy skirmish following their escape from the tribe, marked such a pronounced return of the limp that Marcus became assured that it would now accompany him forever. And although the pain was never so piercing as to be unbearable, more of a haunting, dull ache that he sought to alleviate with some vigorous rubbing, and also by binding it with cloth to compress the inflamed flesh, it made their progress slower still, since Marcus could not brave the uneven terrain as steadily as Esca could. 

It irked Marcus to be weak in this, a nuisance to his free friend as much as he had been a nuisance to a loyal slave, a steadfast companion, for Esca had to match his pace to that of Marcus, and offer him comfort whenever they stopped to rest. Marcus was profoundly grateful that Esca had went ahead and arranged horses for them: proper local stock, short and sturdy, and if they had to stay with the small settlement of the Selgovae a little while, trading some seasonal labour in addition to the money, then, well, it pleased Marcus' heart all too well. That way, they got to spend more time together, suspended in the twilight hour, when no decision needed to be made just yet; no longer on the other side of the wall, but not yet properly where Rome was Rome, either. 

Now, however, that brief respite was over, and they were making steady progress further south, occasionally opting for a well-travelled road, occasionally taking a shortcut through the fields or the marshland. Marcus' leg was grateful, being spared the pitiless climbs and descents now that they rode on horseback, and Marcus himself was grateful, too. But, by Mithras, it was difficult to let himself be cared for. In fact, the more pleasure rushed through him at the very thought of Esca sparing a moment to ponder how to contribute to Marcus' comfort, the more hot embarrassment gripped Marcus' throat in a tight vice. The sweeter it was to lose himself in congenial conversation and easy jokes, in the leisurely admiration of the somber skies and quivering undergrowth, the quicker Marcus' mood turned sour wish shame afterwards. An inconstant companion is an unpleasant one, and Marcus was ready to curse his own fickle mind ten times over. He did not wish for Esca to find him disagreeable. He did not want to be a dour-faced vexation. However, try as he may, Marcus could not dispel the cloud of sadness that seemed to hang above him, and at this point, he believed that nothing short of a divine epiphany could possibly grant him a miraculous transformation of disposition: he simply could not let go of his worries, no matter how petty and unbecoming they truly were.

He punished himself discreetly by riding as briskly as a healthy man would, using his thigh muscles to control the horse and almost relishing the ensuing pain and cramps, as if that was what he deserved; by eating less and drinking less than he would want to, and by talking long enough and loud enough to run out of breath just so that he might amuse Esca with conversation, prompt an outraged exclamation or incredulous laughter at some particularly bizarre custom or bawdy song; and by taking longer watches even though Esca grumbled every time he caught him doing so. Perversely, these punishments would send a frisson of delight through Marcus' frame: originally, he intended to make himself suffer for being too prideful to accept his own limitations and weaknesses, and for bearing with poor grace the benefits bestowed upon him. But in reality, all those self-inflicted bodily inconveniences which were meant to bring sobering discomfort as a relief to Marcus' mind did more than that: they made an odd satisfaction swell up inside him whenever he felt that he bore what was his due properly. This satisfaction was similarly warm and sublime to the one Marcus experienced whenever Esca directed one of his earnest, luminous looks at him mid-conversation, or whenever a sharp grin cut across Esca's face in response to a joke Marcus had made. 

It was a similarly appealing sensation, and one that confused Marcus just as much.

Marcus fiddled with the edges of his sleeves and flexed his fingers, keen to restore the agility of his hands, still stiff and lightly swollen from the chill of the night. His thoughts were scattering and chasing one another haphazardly, swift and unpredictable. Much like Cradoc the warrior and his kin. Marcus would have preferred them neat and obedient, marching in strict order like a proper century. Instead, they shattered his composure and smithed his half-formed resolutions. (The dull sheen of the Pia Fidelis bracelet and the melting gold of the eagle standard; the biting rain on Marcus' skin when Esca had left, vowing to return, and the gentle warmth spreading along his back when they had lain together on the same pallet in the Selgovae hut, letting the tension from the day's chores seep out of their bodies.) Queer thoughts, quick thoughts; they left Marcus vacillant where a man should be resolute, eager where he should be restrained.

It was yet another morning, the milky sunlight flooding everything as far as the eye could see, and Marcus was still no closer to obtaining what he wanted than when he had been on his knees in the mud, throat bared to the Seal Prince. No closer to his heart's desire than when he had been unsteady on his feet, keeping the weight off his mangled leg, and watching Esca limned by light as he offered Marcus his father's dagger, the fiercest promise of fealty Marcus had ever seen. Then and now, all different points in time and in their relationship, but all equidistant from what Marcus craved, seized by strange longing from the very first moment their eyes had met in the ludus. 

But while in the night Marcus could withstand the bittersweet stirrings of desire just as much as the macabre memories of his fallen comrades and lost battles, and would even let familiar shame and conjecture savage his mind (even though by daylight he had grown to think himself different, less attached to the Roman shackles of family glory, manliness and ambition), now, on the cusp of a new day, Marcus had to cast it all off. All these wild thoughts, each painted differently, had to retreat, for Marcus could no longer indulgingly war with himself. The weary grass blades caught a breeze and whispered against supple soil and hard-packed path just as Marcus murmured a prayer to Mithras under his breath. 

The sun rose and the landscape stretched in front of him, awash with silvery grey morning light.

The bull-slaying god clearly gazed favourably on Marcus, despite him still lingering in the initiatory grade of the Raven. Why else had he been granted answers to all the burning questions about his father, and had met Guern and the others, and even had a chance to fight shoulder to shoulder with them, thus becoming closer to his father than he had ever been? Why else had he been granted _life_ and, probably more importantly, _insight_ that had spurred Marcus to let go and to place the symbol of Legio IX on Guern's funeral pyre, burning all that had chased and chewed at Marcus for all these long years? Mithras had tested him with loss, pain, contempt and pity, but Mithras had also been kind to him beyond measure. Because Esca had said that he wanted to have horses when Marcus had said that he wanted a farm, and those things were not mutually exclusive, were they? Even if Marcus' suggestion they go to Hispania was akin to a feckless youth promising the world to his beloved, for without proof of their discovery – without a golden eagle to bring to Claudius Hieronimianus – there would be no money or recognition to be gained, and Marcus could hardly offer Esca much. But if Esca wanted to go to Hispania, Marcus was going to find a way. And if he wanted to stay in Britannia, there would be a way, too. 

Except there was thin fire in Marcus' ventricules and a clench in his gut at the thought of – someone else looking at Esca with urgency if they stayed here, where Esca was clearly considered a man of appealing looks and distinguished bearing – someone other than Marcus having a claim to face to face conversations and companionship. Marcus' ears thundered whenever he recalled the keen, quick-witted Selgovae horse trader; and the handsome younger brother of the man who had offered them his house while they fashioned some tools and joined the other men of the tribe in mending the roofs in the village; and even the Seal Prince, eyes burning far too bright whenever he had spoken to Esca in a tongue Marcus could not parse but with an intent in his very body that Marcus could fathom all too well. 

So surely if Esca actually wanted to stay in Britannia, Marcus would have to find a way to muzzle his jealousy.

Having reached this resolution, Marcus brought the small clay beaker to his lips and took a sip of water, feverishly begging that he might one day rise from a Raven to a Bridegroom – if not in the mysteries, then in spirit, perhaps. With the one person with whom it now mattered. 

Forcing himself to turn his head, Marcus caught the crescent of Esca's smile a heartbeat before he finally woke up and opened his eyes.

The chilled earth and the warming air, neither willing to cede ground, gave rise to a misty veil which brought all shapes a molten, indistinct quality. Thus, Marcus was not sure he could trust his eyes when Esca stretched and shook himself, like a hound, and then rose to his feet and approached Marcus, pulling the half-full beaker from his fingers. 

Frozen still, Marcus watched Esca's throat as he quenched his thirst with an air of easy entitlement that seemed to have been rekindled the moment they had started on their journey north, and had now been fanned into quite the princely flame. It was easy to believe that Esca had been born a man of high station now, and Marcus felt a pleasurable sting in his sternum at the idea that this stately man now preferred Marcus' company, that he had chosen him, even though better opportunities had presented themselves along the way. In this moment, after hours of anguish and lurid thoughts, Marcus found everything about Esca terribly becoming: his rumpled, simple woolen clothing, mussed hair with dew drops sparkling in it like a diadem, and even the man's comically protruding ears.

And then, apparently without a care for all the doubts which had been ravaging Marcus all this time, Esca discarded the empty beaker and bent down to press a firm kiss to Marcus' mouth. For all that it was the very first time that such a glorious thing happened in Marcus' life, now that he felt Esca's dry, calloused palm pressed to the nape of his neck and the prickly flutter of Esca's eyelashes against his cheek, Marcus' mind was immediately, finally, blissfully quiet and tranquil.

**Author's Note:**

> Epigraph quote from Sappho in the Aaron Poochigian translation; title refers to the same poem: 
> 
> "[...] Gauzy  
> Flame runs radiating under  
> My skin; all that I see is hazy,  
> My ears all thunder."
> 
> Raven is the first grade in the cult of mysteries of Mithras (beaker is one of its symbols), Bridegroom is the next (veil and diadem are among its symbols).


End file.
